Dark Ararat - Brian Stableford [123]
Lynn seemed slightly relieved that the subject had been changed, and was more than ready to mull over the suggestion.
“It’s too crude,” she said. “The exemplary model doesn’t have to be as definite as that. You could argue, more generally, that the predominance here of chimerization weakens the individual integrity of organisms, so that different parts of the same body can—and routinely do—make different arrangements for their own sustenance. Genetic engineers back on Earth were beginning to put together chimeras that were more like closely related colonies than individuals—but even natural selection produced entities like that occasionally: slime-molds, Portugese men-of war. You’d expect colonial quasi-organisms to be more common here on Tyre. Patchwork nutritional systems wouldn’t be particularly odd in that sort of context. Even on Earth, evolutionary theorists on the fringes of respectability have tried to make use of genomic aggregation, ranging from virus-incorporation all the way to parasitic proto-brains. Here, accounts like that would be bound to seem more plausible.”
“That’s true,” Matthew admitted. “I wish people like Lityansky had paid more attention to the range of the available genomic data. I suspect that too much effort has been invested in fundamental analysis of the wonders of the hybrid genome, and not enough in the study of how the genomes operate within actual organisms.”
“It’s only been three years, Matthew,” Lynn pointed out, defensively. “Three understaffed, underequipped, underorganized years, conducted in the shadow of Milyokov’s stupid revolution and his determination to retain his hold on Hope no matter what it costs the rest of us.”
“I realize that,” Matthew said. “It needed ten thousand years of social progress on Earth before our forebears cracked the basics of organic chemistry, let alone the mysterious working of DNA. The crew should have done much more work before they started shuttling our people down. They jumped the gun. It’s no use saying now that we can’t run before we can walk—we have to. Do you think Ike might have fed me all that stuff about psychological cycles, creeping dread and the fact that whoever killed Bernal must have been experiencing a moment of lunacy because he was the one who wielded the fatal blade?”
“He told you because it’s true,” she said, flatly. “He felt that you were due a warning. He didn’t kill Bernal. I’m certain of that.”
“Nor did you. Which leaves Dulcie.”
“I can’t believe that either. Which brings us back to square one. Or the aliens.”
“Or the aliens,” Matthew admitted. “Standing in the bow of the boat for hours on end searching the undergrowth for inquisitive eyes makes the aliens seem far more plausible, doesn’t it? It’s easy enough to imagine them crouching in the bushes, spears in hand, watching the crazy multicolored people go by.” Although his own smartsuit had been programmed to display a discreet black, Matthew had taken due note of the fact that he was the odd one out. Lynn was wearing yellow, Dulcie brown, Ike dark red. Set against the backcloth of the green boat they must indeed have seemed a colorful band of brothers.
“Yes it is,” Lynn agreed. “Let’s just hope they haven’t taken advantage of the division of our numbers to launch an attack on the bubbles. Rand would be so disappointed that he no longer has the wherewithal to shoot them—but I suppose he’d improvise. We only brought one of the flamethrowers with us. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?”
“If the aliens were to attack the boat,” Matthew pointed out, “I’d have to try to shoot them down.”
“Yes,” she said. “But every shot